


That Fortnight

by eldritcher



Series: The Song of Sunset Third Age [5]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 06:18:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4009042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldritcher/pseuds/eldritcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A glimpse into the mind of Eomer of Rohan as he recounts his experiences with Boromir of Gondor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Fortnight

I stood before the ramparts of my forefathers’ halls, letting the fierce gusts of wind pummel my long, tattered riding cloak. I could smell the scent of charred ashes as the people of the settlement burnt the discards of the winter in a huge bonfire lit in the middle of the courtyard. A couple of determinedly cheerful men were even singing the old lays of the season.

Spring was in the air, once again. I sighed, once it would have been a season to rejoice. I would have ridden out with my cousin and uncle. We would have judged archery contests and horse races, feasted at the merry village banquets and enjoyed our liaisons with abandon and passion. That was so long ago, long before the Westfold had fallen and before my uncle and I were torn apart by the lies of Saruman.

My bleak musings were broken like the glass underneath the hooves of a horse as a loud clarion call pervaded the air, proud and clear. The king was indisposed and my cousin was in the patrols. Thought my sister would have no qualms in announcing her arrival in such a tempestuous manner, my uncle’s condition had tempered her wildness much. Who then had the gall to ride into the hold of Rohan with such arrogance?

A proud man he was, I recognized that from my first glimpse of him, his sleek, brown hair flying askew in the wind. His cold, undaunted eyes swept over the merrymaking in the courtyard and his lips curved disapprovingly as he leapt down from his mare. I wondered at the rich tunic that he wore underneath his shining armour that bore the device of Gondor. This was no ordinary messenger from Denethor.  
.  
My curious inspection was halted as he strode towards me, the splendidly wrought horn swaying from his belt as he walked.

I bowed slightly to him, Gondorians are sticklers for courtesies. Those of the plains, The Rohirrim, they do not set much store by courtly manners. But we do adapt to the cultures of the other realms in the interests of our alliances.

“My greetings to you, Eomer of Rohan at your service”, I murmured to him, wondering why he felt the need to carry his shield so closely when obviously within an ally’s capital.

“Boromir, Captain of Gondor, Son of the Steward, Guardian of Osgilliath, at your service”, he did not bow, instead giving me an appraising look, his cool eyes measuring me.

Did he really have to mention all his titles to me? I am his peer here after all, and it passes my intellect why he would presume that I was ignorant of who Boromir of Gondor was.

“Osgilliath”, I was as tactless as my horse, “I do not think you can hold it much longer.”

“How can you make such an opinion?” he snarled as he drew himself to his full, impressive height, his eyes fierce as they glowered at me, “It is the blood of Gondor that is spilt to safeguard Osgilliath. And as long as Gondor has atleast one warrior, the city shall not fall! Our men are doughtier than those who defended Westfold.”

I would have argued with him further if I had not seen the fierce defiance in his features, I shook my head, I had to remember my place as a host after all. It would not do to give in to my temptation to brawl with him.

 

Over the following week, we were thrown together a lot. My uncle was not interested in so active a man’s company. And Grima, the advisor, was too busy with the administration. Since my cousin was leading the patrols, it fell to me to play the host to the fierce captain of Gondor. Days with him were never dull. He loved riding and sparring. He could talk and talk about the wonders of Gondor. And he was disparaging about everything in Rohan.

One evening, as we supped, he said haughtily, “The ale tastes better in Gondor.”

“Then, My Lord”, my sister’s equally haughty voice rose proudly, “Spit out what you have just drank so lustily.”

I sighed, as excited whispering started. Eowyn was renowned for her lack of fear and respect for anyone. And Boromir’s disdain for anything related to Rohan had won him no admirers amongst our patriots.

“A woman should be seen and not heard”, Boromir replied coldly as he stared at my sister with a speculative eye.

I feared her reaction. She did not appreciate such blatant looks. And in the next moment, my fears were proved right as she took a full mug of ale and splashed it with wonderful aim on Boromir’s proud face.

For a moment, there was utter silence. Then Eowyn said coldly, “A goodnight to you, My Lord”, and walked away, her back ramrod straight.

Then the jeers started from the throng and Boromir snarled before striding out, his wet face contorted with pure fury.

I wondered if I should follow my sister or the guest. Then I decided to follow Boromir, the man seemed to be most furious. It would not do to have him plotting revenge against her.

 

“Is that how you raise a lady?” he sneered as I entered his chambers, he was pacing furiously.

“Eowyn”, I began a half-hearted defence of my rather willful sister, “She meant you no offense, I am sure. She is just as patriotic to Rohan as you are to Gondor.”

“A woman shall have no alliance, she belongs to her family”, he shook his head stubbornly, “We are not elves.” 

It was right, of course. My people too followed the same customs. But in my household, our uncle, The King, was most adamant about letting my sister have her own way in anything. He was overprotective of her and indulged her every whim. I did not hold with his opinions myself, but I could not admit that to this man who stood before me.

“My sister is a strong soul”, I said noncommittally, “Offending her is not something many care to do within this realm.”

“Then shall your cousin and you be her puppets when you succeed your uncle to the throne of Rohan?” he asked with a disbelieving laugh.

It rankled within me. Somehow, he had found out my darkest fear. That I should have to bow to her. Even my most loyal men would rush to her banner if it came to such a choice. It was well known in the Riddermark that the White Lady of Rohan was as charismatic a leader as once Eorl had been.

Something of my fears must have been reflected on my features, for he laughed the next instant, pausing to stare at my face.

“Yes?” I asked sullenly, though I had meant to be protective of my kin.

“You fear her”, he laughed again, his cold eyes glinting with disbelief and mirth, “That I should find a Rider of the Mark fearing his sister, a mere woman?”

“I do not fear a woman”, I said defiantly, willing him to believe my words.

“Really?” he asked ironically as he stepped forwards and tilted his head, his eyes examining me with honest disapproval, “In my lands, such cowards would be treated as we treat women and horses. Fit only to be ridden.”

I gasped at the implication of his words, I had never heard of any man brought up in such high circles speaking so crudely before. It was common enough amongst the riders. But to hear such a noble man speaking those words. I confess I flushed to the roots of my hair, crimson with rage and embarrassment.

“I see that you do not take offense”, he said sardonically as he insinuated a bold hand into my hair, I was taller than him, so this was no mere feat.

“Let go of me”, I said in raspy tone, bewildered at the sudden rush of blood to my loins. I hated this man, I hated his arrogance and presumption. How dare he? Then why was I reacting in such a manner?

“Your body disagrees”, he laughed as he prodded the front of my leggings cruelly, his eyes staring amusedly at my frightened face.

 

I will not go into the specifics. But he was a hard man, cruel in all his ways. He loved to bring others down to his will. And he succeeded. He made me beg him for something I had never wanted before. He made me lose my will and my pride. I was frightened, and long absent tears graced my cheeks as he finished with me. 

He did not betray the slightest hint of kindness even then, saying in a curt voice, “Leave, lest you wish your chambermaids to find you thus, like a mare that has just rutted.”

His callous words were the last insult, I bit my lips and hastily left the room.

 

“You are insane”, my sister remarked as I sneaked into the royal wing, where my chambers were located. 

For a moment, I was about to spill the entire story to her, I was still frightened and lost about what had happened. And I am sure that she must have noticed the grimy tear trails and the fresh bruises I had.

“He is a heartless man”, she said coldly as she turned to enter our uncle’s chambers, “And you would do better to stay away from him.”

We have never been close, my sister and I. But I had to agree with her on this matter.

 

It continued, all those days when he stayed, waiting for the weather to brighten before he could travel on to Rivendell, to discuss the situation in Gondor.

I had given up hope of ever receiving the least regard from him. He was all cold courtesy and high disdain in the mornings. And he would be most cruel and callous at nights. He never called me. Instead, like an addicted fool, I would sneak to his chambers. He would stare at me with a knowing expression of amused loathing. 

What did it mean to me? I am, after all, a warrior worthy of marrying any woman I cared to in the land. Why did I seek that arrogant man when all he did was to use me and insult me? I told myself that it was nothing; mere curiosity, but I was lying, of course.

It cost me whatever respect and love that had existed between my uncle and I. He hated my obvious submission to Boromir. 

I hated them all. None of them knew what I felt. The fear, the shock, the humiliation and yet, the need. What was happening to me?

 

I did not know whether to shed tears of joy or sorrow when he was finally ready to depart. We stood on the steps of the courtyard, waiting for his horse to be led to him.

“Thank you for a wonderful fortnight”, he said politely.

“Boromir”, I halted, wondering what I could say, we had never alluded to it in the daylight, “I…That is, you…”

“Yes?” he asked impatiently, wiping off specks of mud from his shield.

I closed my eyes and exhaled, “Boromir, will you take the Gap of Rohan on your return journey?”

“I will”, he said crisply, “My father has asked me to take a bride from Rohan. I have to choose a woman. I think I might decide on your sister. A strong woman. She can sire many sons. Though, I will have a trying time breaking her in.”

“What?” I asked foolishly, my hands sweating unreasonably in the cool spring air, “Then…you, all along?”

He glanced at me with frank curiosity before saying incredulously, “Of course, Just because I was kind enough to indulge your depraved desires does not mean that I found the least passion for it! What do you take me for, a pervert? I bear noble blood in my veins, Lord Marshal, and I despise such acts. Indeed, I would penalize such men if they were under my captaincy. ”

 

There was nobody I could confide in, Theoden was too distant. Theodred would not understand me, though we were close cronies. And my sister knew of this, but I would not find sympathy or advice there. I could not imagine her reaction if I were to tell her that he meant to ask for her hand.

I shielded my torn heart as well as I could and rode to war. I found myself praying for his return. I was drawn to the Gap of Rohan, looking for a head of sleek brown hair.

 

“I hear that you were my brother’s companion when he had been in Rohan”, Faramir’s quiet voice broke into my thoughts.

I had given away my sister to him. He was an ideal match. I lie, he was not a good match at all. But by some perverse game of fate, her future was in my hands. Our uncle had died, and with him, many of her staunchest supporters.

Aragorn hated her since she was all he could never be, proud, courageous and self-assured. She had faced a wraith, killed it, defending our uncle and then lived to tell the tale. So we decided to marry her off to Faramir, a man who could never match her flame. Gandalf did not agree, but he could not peril the frail alliances with the fading elves that he favoured so much.

Now, as we celebrated an after-nuptials stag party, I found myself drawn into a conversation with my brother by law.

“I was his companion”, I said hesitantly, wondering if my mask would hold after all these grueling days in Gondor, each flagstone seemed to have his mark, “A noble soul.”

Faramir’s brow creased slightly before he said, “I know”, he raised his goblet in silent salute before averting his eyes to where his bride danced without a care, waltzing splendidly with one of Lord Elrond’s sons.

I could see the Queen frowning as she watched them. Maybe it was indecorous in elven lands to dance so giddily. But seeing that her brother was enjoying the waltz, I could not accept that reason. I thought of going over to Eowyn and asking her to show more restraint. Years of dealing with her made me cease. She would never listen to anyone.

“A wonderful woman”, Legolas joined us at the table, his amused green eyes on my sister.

“Yes, I do hope that I can be a portion of what she deserves”, Faramir said humbly.

The elf’s green eyes measured him silently over the goblet of rich wine before he said quietly, “I believe that nobody ever can match her. Unless, we take Mithrandir into account.”

Once more, I was at a loss to see if he was jesting or not. We were on good terms on the battlefields, but not off them. He seemed to be watching me curiously always, his gaze intent and brooding.

As Faramir left to speak to Aragorn, Legolas turned to me and set down his goblet. His eyes were heavy with a decision taken.

“Yes?” I asked nervously.

“Boromir”, he chose his words carefully, “He kept few personal possessions. And he was a man of few words.”

“I believe that you should be talking of this to his grieving brother”, I said hastily as I made to rise from the table. 

I might be able to keep my mask before the rest, but the elf had an uncanny guile for spotting deception.

“I will be grateful should you resume your seat and give me a fair hearing. It might help you find some peace”, his eyes were sad and wise as he held my gaze.

“I am a King”, I said coldly, “You cannot endeavour to order me thus.”

“I have been a Prince longer than you have been a King”, he said with a quirk of his lips, “Sit down, we must speak of this.”

I slumped down into my chair, staring sullenly at the dancers, what would I not give to be one of them?

“My Lord”, he paused in uncharacteristic display of hesitation, then he ploughed on, “After he was wounded, he mentioned your name and how he regretted that he had never told you the truth, that he had not confessed the exact nature of his regard for you.”

“What?” I drank down my ale in increasing panic and desperation.

“Yes”, he continued thoughtfully, “I believe his experiences in Imladris made him change his prejudiced opinion in this matter. As it stands, I thought I might tell you, I have wanted to from the first day of our acquaintance, but I have never found the right moment.”

“Aragorn”, I whispered.

“No”, he shook his head calmly, “Estel and Gimli did not perceive your actual relationship with Boromir. Only I know.”

“Thank you”, I said hoarsely before rising from the table and escaping into the open air.

 

What had happened? One arrogant man, he had changed my life, turning out my conventional existence, waking a craving in me so frightening and base that I had despaired for my very sanity.

 

It meant the life to me, that fortnight. But I do not regret his death though I shall ever mourn him. His death has paved the way to my ascent. And what is man, but for power? His death has blotted out that part of me which craved for those unexplainable sensations. That is well, for I cannot be the proud, unbending ruler that I am now if not for his death.

 

I will marry Imrahil’s daughter. And only Legolas, Eowyn and I shall know of my turbulent past. My sister will never stoop to something as low as destroying my rule with the skeletons hidden in my closest. And the elf has nothing to profit from my fall.

I shall live a new life. But I shall never stop wistfully mourning the painful, yet fulfilling days of that fortnight.


End file.
